Thanatosis
by freefallin13
Summary: Thanatosis n. : A state that in some respects resembles shock, is characterized by cessation of all voluntary activity...a posture suggestive of death. A telling of Johanna Mason's path to victory in the 70th Annual Hunger Games.


**Prologue**

Two.

It floated across the screen, dancing across Caesar Flickerman's face, before disappearing behind him.

Silence filled the room, and Johanna Mason could feel the disappointed stares of her mentors and stylists burning on the back of her neck.

The buzz from Pike's "nine" evaporated, and suddenly nobody gathered around the projection screen felt much like celebrating.

A two doesn't earn sponsors.

A two earns pity. Shame.

A two dies within the opening seconds of the Games.

A two enters the private training session with her eyes down, struggles to lift the 50-pound ball for more than three seconds, trips through the rope course and then spends the rest of the time scavenging for berries.

Johanna hugged her knees to her chest and stared at the floor. Behind her, the stylists resumed chattering about outfits for the interviews and a trio of mentors gathered around Pike.

She couldn't blame them. If District 7 wanted its first victor in a decade, Pike was their surest bet to groom and train for the arena.

No one would give a two a second thought.

A gentle pat on her knee shook her from her thoughts. It was Zeera, one of her stylists, worry lining his green-tinged face.

"Numbers aren't everything," he said in a weak attempt to lift Johanna's spirits. "In fact, I remember a two winning a few years back...I think..."

He trailed off lamely, and he and Johanna both knew that such an anecdote likely never happened. Johanna glanced over his shoulder to see Vespis, a District 7 mentor with neatly trimmed goatee and salt-and-pepper hair slicked back over his scalp, staring intently at her. She looked back at Zeera, her large brown eyes brimming with tears.

"I just want to go home," she whispered, hugging her knees even tighter as the tears streaked down her face. "I just...I want my mother."

Zeera's face fell and he backed away awkwardly. He wasn't used to tributes like the small, dark-haired girl crying before him. At the worst, they were quiet, withdrawn, grim. Hardly ever would they openly accept defeat.

He shuffled back over to the other stylists, back to the laughter and the cheer. Johanna rested her chin on her knees and stared out the dark window, eyes unfocused.

* * *

After a while, she quietly excused herself to her bedroom. She expected no one noticed, preferred no one noticed. Everyone was too focused on Pike, the tall, strong, eldest son of the oldest lumberjacking family in her district. A much more impressive pedigree for the brutal arena than the daughter of the town drunk.

It wasn't until she reached the safety of her bedroom and closed the door behind her that she stretched out on the silky, soft bed that she realized someone was already in the room.

"That was impressive," the deep voice said, and she bolted up, scooting back against the headboard in panic.

"You can drop the act, Mason. It's just me."

Vespis sat in the large chair next to the bed with fingers bridged under his chin. She saw his gray eyes gleam in the dark. For a moment, they stared at each other in silence.

Then they each broke out in a mutual grins.

"You think they bought it?" Johanna asked silkily, lounging back onto her bed.

"About as well as the gamekeepers did," Vespis said.

Johanna said nothing but continued to smirk up at the dark ceiling.

"You're not worried the boy will suspect?" Vespis asked.

Johanna shrugged in the darkness, then realized Vespis couldn't see her.

"Pike and I didn't run in the same circles at school," she said. "You don't really have much time for friends when your father recruits you into the family business at the tender age of 12."

"Family business?" Vespis cocked an eyebrow. Everyone in town knew Bruce Mason was a no-work drunk. But it never occurred to him how Mrs. Mason and Johanna must eat...

"Dad's never had a sip of liquor in his life," Johanna said, the smirk still firmly plastered on her face. "He runs the underground Root operation. The drunk bum act is just that: An act to keep the Peacekeepers off his trail."

Vespis leaned forward, visibly impressed. Root was a type of liquor derived from birch tree bark and sassafras. It was cheap, strong and, above all, illegal under the firm hand of the Capitol. It was also District 7's chief export behind lumber. Nearly every store, eatery and food mart in the area had a hidden stash of Root for the customer who asked the right questions.

Peacekeepers who weren't quite so attached to the Captiol's teat could be bribed into smuggling Root into neighboring districts - for a very steep fee.

"Your father is the brainpower behind Root?" Vespis said, his voice an awed whisper. "And on one knows? There must be over 100 people involved in that operation..."

"...and no one has ever seen the man in charge of it all," Johanna finished with a grin. "His second in command gives all the orders to the lieutenants, who pass word on to their runners, and so on."

"And the second in command...?"

"Is a blind man who my father rescued from the Peacekeepers a decade ago," Johanna said, bored. "Not only is he physically incapable of identifying Dad, but he also owes his life to our family."

"Why are you telling me this?" Vespis mused.

Johanna's grin grew even wickeder. She moved off the bed and pooled herself in Vespis's lap. She leaned in, as if to tell him a secret, and he closed his eyes and smiled. Suddenly, he felt cold steel on his throat and his eyes flew back open.

Johanna's face was poised an inch from has. In her hand, she held a small knife, pressed firmly against his neck.

"You won't tell anyone, will you, Vespis?" she whispered, cocking an eyebrow.

He shook his head silently, the cool gleam in his eye replaced with fear.

She stood up, laughed and sashayed toward the shower, leaving Vespis stunned where he sat.

No, no one would give a two a second thought at all.


End file.
